Winds of Eden (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

Sheikh Saad, Friday 7th January 1916

‘I wish this damned mist would shift.'

As if the gods heard Boris, the fog drifted upwards to reveal a solid wall of Arab camelry and cavalry ranged in front of the Turkish lines. At the sight of the British cavalry drawn up in battle order they uttered bloodcurdling whoops.

‘What are they saying?' Boris asked.

‘Off-hand I'd translate it as they're not pleased to see us,' his CO replied.

‘There are thousands of them.'

‘Probably no more than two or three.' The CO lifted his hand in preparation to give the signal to mount.

‘If they're out to intimidate, they're succeeding.

‘Soon as we charge they'll melt into the landscape. Arabs never stand and fight. Always hit and run, hit and run, hit and run, followed by run and run and run and run. So ignore the cabaret, it's nothing more than wind and bluster.'

‘Prepare to mount!' The order was passed down the lines.

‘Mount!'

The British cavalry assembled on the left flank of the Relief Force steadied their horses before swinging in one quick synchronised movement upwards, and into their saddles.

‘The Black Watch are going in,' a voice on their right cried as the bagpipes started up.

‘Without artillery support over a bare open plain …' Realising what he was saying could be construed as criticism of command, Boris took a deep breath.

‘Get ready …'

The rest of the order was drowned by Turkish gunfire. Boris reined in his horse and watched rows of the Black Watch advance only to fall at the first volley.

Cries of ‘Stretcher-bearer!' resounded in the air. High-pitched, urgent, they could be heard even above the noise of artillery.

‘Advance!'

The cavalry moved out in a solid line. Their mounts trotted into a steady canter picking their way past the British wounded as they headed for the Turkish trenches.

Boris gripped his sabre, spurred his horse and tried not to look at the men lying on the ground as he galloped past. Tom Mason's warnings about lack of medical facilities echoed in his mind when he spotted two stretcher-bearers stepping into no-man's-land from the trenches that housed the 35th Brigade.

‘Turks ahead!' The CO's voice was carried by the wind.

Boris tugged his reins, swerving to avoid two privates on the ground. There was no way of knowing if they were alive or dead.

As his CO had predicted, the Arab camelry and cavalry were falling back either side of the advance. As they dispersed they reminded Boris of the cockroaches that had scurried under the skirting boards whenever he'd carried a light into his father's cellar.

The first Turkish trench loomed ahead. He jumped his horse over an enemy gun battery, whirled around and thrust down at a gunner's head. The blade sliced cleanly almost but not quite severing the man's head from his body. There was no time to think.

Only react.

To his left and right were his comrades. Ahead the Turks and their guns. His horse thundered over the hard ground towards the Turkish artillery. Guns he needed to silence for men who hadn't made it as far as him.

Kut al Amara, Friday 7th January 1916

‘Take Lieutenant Colonel Downe's aide to the Norfolks' stable, corporal,' the brigadier ordered.

‘Sir.' The corporal snapped to attention in the doorway of the brigadier's office.

‘If you wait for me there, Mitkhal. I'll be along with the paperwork that will be needed to release Harry's horses into your care,' Crabbe said.

Mitkhal turned to the brigadier. ‘Thank you for allowing me to take Harry's horses to his widow, sir.'

‘I'll see you before you leave, Mitkhal, and it's me who will be thanking you if you get the dispatches to Ali Gharbi before the Relief Force reaches here.'

Mitkhal left. The brigadier motioned Crabbe back into his chair.

‘Do you have any ideas on the courier?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I thought you might.'

‘Smythe, sir,' Crabbe said decisively. ‘He hasn't recovered from the leg wound he took when he demolished Sandes's bridge or the bullet in his shoulder. He can't seem to shake off that hacking cough …'

‘So you send him out undercover with a native. The Turks will hear them coming from a mile away.'

‘That's the idea, sir. You know how terrified the Turks are of tuberculosis.'

‘With good reason considering a third of the POWs we took before Nasiriyeh were infected.'

‘Exactly, sir. They'll hear Smythe cough and give him as wide a berth as the river will allow.'

‘Does he have TB?'

‘Not according to Mason or Knight, sir. He's had a couple of bouts of pneumonia which have worn him down physically and Mason has been concerned that he isn't recovering from his wounds as well as he should.'

‘So by making him a courier we'll be killing two birds with one stone, informing Nixon and Aylmer of our dispositions inside the town before they get here so they'll know how best to disperse their troops; and getting Smythe out so he can continue on to Basra, decent medical care and no doubt a stretch of leave that he can spend with his wife.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You're somewhat transparent at times, Crabbe.'

‘Yes, sir.'

The brigadier pulled a notepad towards him and scribbled an order. He tore it off and handed it to Crabbe. ‘That should get Harry's horses out of Perry's clutches. If Perry kicks up a fuss refer him to me.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I'll have the dispatches ready by nightfall. We'll go over them before I hand them to Smythe. Do you want to give him the good news or shall I?'

‘I thought I'd ask Mason to do the honours, sir.'

‘Good idea. Might be better coming from a medic. Off with you, Crabbe. I have work to do even if you don't.'

‘Sir.'

Crabbe left HQ and went directly to the hospital. He couldn't have timed it better. John had finished his morning rounds and was drinking tea with Knight in his cubicle.

‘Snipers starting late today?' Crabbe joined them.

‘Night sentries reported Turkish troops being pulled from the lines and moving downstream in columns. Show must be starting down there soon, if it hasn't already.' Knight filled another mug with tea and handed it to Crabbe.

‘I came to give you the news.'

‘Perry won't hand Harry's horses over to Mitkhal?' John suggested.

Crabbe held up the paper the brigadier had given him. ‘No, I have the order here, signed by the brigadier.'

‘If Perry ignores it?' John asked.

‘I don't think even Perry would cross the brigadier. I'm here because we need a courier to get the brigadier's dispatches through the lines. I suggested Smythe.'

‘Through the lines with Mitkhal,' John guessed.

‘As far as Ali Gharbi, but once Smythe reaches there I doubt anyone will begrudge him a few days with his wife in Basra.'

‘If he lives to see Ali Gharbi,' John qualified.

‘You think Smythe will be up for it?' Knight moved his chair to face Crabbe.

‘I think he'll listen to a doctor who tells him it's his duty.'

‘He's feverish and has a cough …' John began.

‘The brigadier knows. We think it will put the Turks off questioning him, if he's dressed in Arab robes and headdress.'

‘And if it doesn't, Smythe will be shot as a spy.'

‘Mitkhal knows how to avoid Turks.'

‘I would have said the same of Harry until they murdered him. When is Mitkhal leaving?' John asked.

‘Tomorrow before dawn. Will you tell Smythe or shall I?'

‘Tell? A mission like this has to be voluntary. The one to do the asking should be the brigadier.'

‘The brigadier thought the request might be better coming from a medic able to point out the benefits of a rest in a Basra hospital.'

‘Really?' John was openly sceptical. ‘You've already told the brigadier I'll talk to Smythe, haven't you?'

‘If I have, it's your fault for always being so accommodating.'

‘Thank you, Crabbe,' John snapped.

‘I ordered Smythe back to bed after I dressed his wound this morning,' Knight opened the stove and tossed in a cake of dried dung.

‘It's infected?'

‘Not looking good, but what do you expect on this diet? Half the men I treated this morning have wounds and sores that are failing to heal and bleed when pressed.'

‘I'll find him.' John left his chair.

‘I'll walk with you as far as the Norfolks' stables.' Crabbe followed John out of the building. ‘Have you asked Mitkhal to call on Maud?' he asked when they were in the street.

‘No.'

‘Mitkhal's not returning to Basra?'

‘You heard him last night. He's not prepared to say where he's based.'

‘You're not giving him a letter for Maud or your family that can be sent on?'

‘No, Crabbe.' John stopped walking. ‘Believe me, I'm grateful to you for defending me, and rescuing me from a firing squad. If it wasn't for you I'd be mouldering in the cemetery, but you're a realist. You're aware just how precarious our situation is.'

‘Your family believe you're dead, man!'

‘If I survive they'll be surprised. If I don't, they won't have two telegrams to contend with.'

‘And there's me thinking you'd be delighted to spread some sweetness and light among your nearest and dearest.'

‘One lot of sweetness and light will have to be enough for you, Crabbe, and even that's dependent on me persuading Peter to accompany Mitkhal.'

‘These are the Norfolks' stables.' Unsure how to address Mitkhal, the corporal stood back to allow him to enter the building first.

Mitkhal ducked under the doorway and walked into a long, low-built barn that had obviously been built for storage. There were no stalls and no water troughs. The horses had canvas water buckets slung around their heads and a stable hand was filling them from a hose connected to a water pump.

Thoroughbred officers' mounts were ranged in lines facing one another. Before Mitkhal's eyes had time to adjust to the windowless gloom, Dorset saw him, whinnied, and stamped her hooves. Mitkhal turned and saw the two greys tethered next to one another. He walked over to the mare. She nuzzled his abba in search of sugar lumps.

‘Sorry, old girls, I've nothing for you,' he murmured.

Somerset, who'd always been more reticent than Dorset about coming forward, nudged his elbow alongside her stablemate.

‘They're beautiful horses,' the corporal who'd escorted him to the stables ventured.

‘They are,' Mitkhal agreed.

‘They know you.'

‘They haven't forgotten me.' Mitkhal thought of the greeting they'd give Harry – if he managed to avoid horse thieves and transport them downstream.

Footsteps echoed over the mud brick floor.

‘Hey, you there! Native boy!'

Mitkhal didn't turn his head.

‘What do you think you're doing there with Colonel Perry's horses?' a square-built, thickset sergeant demanded.

‘The brigadier sent him, sergeant,' the corporal answered. ‘These are Lieutenant Colonel Downe's horses.'

‘Lieutenant Colonel Downe's dead and I was talking to the raghead, not you.' The sergeant tugged at Mitkhal's head cloth. Mitkhal turned and yanked it from the sergeant's hands.

The sergeant pushed his face into Mitkhal's. ‘I'm talking to you, cloth ears. What are you doing with Colonel Perry's mounts?'

‘The brigadier …' the corporal began.

‘I don't care what the brigadier said. He has no jurisdiction in this stable. And neither have you. Hampshires, aren't you?' The sergeant shoved the corporal. He lost his balance and reeled into the line of horses. The two tethered next to Dorset reared. They struck out with their hooves and one caught the corporal in the chest.

He gasped and fainted. Mitkhal scooped him up.

‘Take your friend and clear off out of here, you bastard,' the sergeant tugged a crop from his belt and raised it to Mitkhal.

‘Hit me and you'll regret it.'

The vehemence in Mitkhal's voice momentarily stayed the sergeant's hand. ‘So you do have a tongue in your head, raghead.'

Mitkhal set the corporal down on a pile of sacks of grain. Next to them was a small sack covered with greenish dust that had a peculiar distinctive odour. Mitkhal touched it.

‘No bloody raghead tells me what to do!'

Mitkhal whirled and caught the crop before it struck him. He wrenched it from the sergeant's hands and snapped it across his knee.

‘What the hell's going on here?' Colonel Perry stood in the doorway blocking the limited light that percolated into the building.

‘This raghead was messing with your horses. He assaulted me.'

‘Did he now?' Perry advanced. ‘It's Harry Downe's tame Arab, isn't it?'

Mitkhal stood his ground and stared at Perry.

Perry bellowed an order. Half a dozen men ran into the building. ‘Disarm this native, escort him to a cell. If he gives you any trouble, show him who's in charge of his country now.'

Chapter Twenty-three

Basra, Friday 7th January 1916

‘Who is that man Reverend Butler and Maud are talking to in the garden?' Theo asked Mrs Butler when he and Dr Picard arrived at the mission for lunch.

‘Major Brooke from HQ. He came to tell Maud he's finalised the paperwork for her widow's pension and the annuity Major Mason arranged for her. Apparently the Brooke family are business acquaintances of Dr Mason's father. After Major Brooke visited Maud last week he telegraphed Dr Mason and offered to put her affairs in order.'

‘That was good of him.' Theo watched Major Brooke clasp Maud's hand and kept his suspicions about the major's motives to himself. ‘I trust Maud has been left well provided for.'

Reverend Butler left Maud and the major and entered the dining room through the French windows. ‘Sorry, my dear,' he apologised to his wife, ‘I couldn't persuade Major Brooke to stay for lunch as he has a meeting at HQ. As for Maud, Theo, she is now an extremely wealthy lady. I was aware Major Mason had independent means, but I didn't realise the extent of his family's wealth.'

‘Major Brooke apprised you of Maud's financial affairs, Reverend?' Theo was surprised.

‘Maud asked me to sit with them while the major explained the details. Like all women she's incapable of understanding simple accounts.' Reverend Butler took his place at the head of the table.

‘Sorry I'm late, but my lesson on Greek mythology overran.' Angela rushed in.

‘Your pupils still want Troy to win the Trojan War?' Theo teased her.

‘They can't understand why a war was named after the losing side.'

‘Go on, admit it, you wanted the Trojans to win too when you first read the Iliad.'

‘You have to concede, Troy is a more romantic name than Sparta.'

‘Romantic maybe, but hardly moral, especially when you consider the city state produced men like Paris who stole another man's wife.' Theo took his chair between the Reverend and Dr Picard.

‘Morality seems to have bypassed most of Greek myths.'

‘May I suggest because they were penned before the Christian era, Angela.' The Reverend folded his hands together. ‘Grace.'

Dr Picard, Mrs Butler, and Theo rose to their feet. Angela remained standing behind her chair and bowed her head.

‘Thank you, Lord, for the food we are about to eat and all your blessings. Amen.'

Grateful to the reverend for keeping the lunchtime grace short, Angela picked up the tray that had been set up for Maud on the sideboard and began filling the water glass and soup bowl. ‘I'll take this to Maud.'

‘Tell her we're looking forward to her joining us at meals as soon as she feels up to it.' Mrs Butler passed the bread plate down the table.

‘You heard anything interesting at the hospital?' Reverend Butler asked Theo and Dr Picard.

‘Like what?' Theo helped himself to bread.

‘Like something's happening upriver?'

Angela froze.

‘Not that we've heard. In fact Sister Margaret observed this morning that given the lack of new casualties the fighting appears to have stopped,' Dr Picard observed.

‘I called in the Basra Club this morning to put up notices about our chess club for officers. The steward informed me that one of the subalterns from HQ let slip that hostilities have broken out between the Turks and the British upriver. In fact he …' the Reverend started nervously when Angela dropped the tray. It shattered in a welter of cracked wood, broken glass, shards of porcelain and rivulets of soup and water.

‘Sit down before you fall down.' Theo grabbed Angela by the shoulders and led her to her chair.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't think,' Reverend Butler blurted apologetically. ‘But even if the subaltern and steward are right, and hostilities have broken out, the fighting can't possibly be anywhere near Kut. Besides, the account's probably an exaggeration based on the actions of a few marauding Arabs who decided to attack the British at Ali Gharbi …' Reverend Butler faltered. Even he realised the more he said, the less credible he sounded.

‘Please, let me do that,' Angela said to the maid, who'd brought in a bucket and cloths to clear the mess.

‘I wouldn't hear of it, my dear.' Mrs Butler patted Angela's hand. ‘Don't worry about Maud. I'll take in her tray.'

Theo checked Angela's pulse. ‘You need to lie down.'

‘No, I have to teach …'

‘I'll take your class this afternoon. It's not their day for Bible studies but timetables should never be too rigid.' Mrs Butler went to the sideboard and arranged another tray. ‘Go with your brother, dear. I'll send you in some soup.'

‘Please don't. I'm not an invalid.'

‘A sandwich and some water then.'

‘Come on, sis.' Theo helped Angela to her feet.

‘No, really, I'm fine,' Angela protested.

‘We can see how fine you are by your chalk-white cheeks. No more arguing, you're going to lie down.' Theo propelled his sister into the hall.

‘I can walk without supervision, please eat your lunch,' she pleaded.

‘Not until I see you on your bed.' Theo watched her lie down before returning to the dining room where Reverend Butler was holding forth on the steward of the Basra Club's predictions on how long it would take to relieve Kut.

‘Everyone's agreed it has to be days rather than weeks. So many troops are being shipped in from the Western Front and India they'll overcome the Turks by sheer weight of numbers. As you've seen first-hand,' he looked to Dr Picard and Theo, ‘the average Turkish soldier is a very poor specimen. Disease-ridden and cowardly.'

‘The disease can be put down to poor nutrition, if not outright starvation. As for cowardice, I'm not sure how I'd react if I were subjected to a constant artillery barrage.' Dr Picard leaned back so the maid could clear his soup bowl.

‘But you agree the British will soon overcome the Turk and drive them from this land,' Reverend Butler pressed.

‘As I have no idea of the conditions upstream I wouldn't like to hazard a guess as to the outcome of this war.'

‘The British have never failed to triumph,' Reverend Butler countered.

‘For all our sakes, I hope you're right, Reverend.' Bored by the speculative conversation, Dr Picard looked at Theo. ‘Given the rumours we'd better return to the hospital and check our stocks of dressings and medicines in preparation for another influx of POWs.'

‘I'll be with you as soon as I've finished this meal and checked on Angela.'

‘What about pudding, Theo?' Mrs Butler smiled. ‘It's your favourite. Madeira with custard.'

‘Save me some for later, please, Mrs Butler.'

‘I'll make sure the cook sets it aside.'

As he finished his meal, Theo considered Maud's new-found wealth and independence. She'd received rich compensation for the loss of the husband she'd betrayed and who would have divorced her for infidelity had he lived. If Peter Smythe died tomorrow, all Angela would be left with was a military pension, which she'd lose if she remarried. Unlike John Mason, who'd had independent means, all Peter could leave his widow was the memory of his love – and no one could live on that.

And him? He glanced at Dr Picard. Would that be him thirty years from now? After a lifetime of working for the Mission, Picard had little more than the clothes he stood up in, the goodwill of the patients he'd tended, and the fare back to France. If he didn't last as long as Dr Picard, no doubt the mission would purchase him an ‘economy grave' as it had done for his missionary parents when they'd succumbed to disease.

When he left Basra, whether it was tomorrow or years from now, he'd be hard put to scrape the fare back to the USA for both him and Angela if she was widowed – which was a likely prospect if conditions in Kut were anything like as foul as he'd heard.

They'd return to the States as paupers, without a house to live in and no funds for him to buy into a medical practice. Whereas Maud, who'd borne a bastard and treated her husband abominably had been left comfortably off. He and Angela for all their hard work would be left destitute.

He finished his meat and hid as much of the mashed potatoes as he could beneath his knife and fork. ‘Please excuse me.'

‘Would you like me to send the maid in with coffee?'

‘Just for Angela, please, Mrs Butler, I'll have mine at the hospital. I'll be with you in ten minutes, Dr Picard.'

‘I'll order the carriage.'

Theo found Angela still lying on her bed staring up at the ceiling.

He pulled a chair up and reached for his pipe. ‘Mind if I smoke?'

‘You know I don't.'

‘In your bedroom?'

‘You can open the window when you leave.'

He took his tobacco pouch from his pocket and unclipped it. ‘I don't have to ask if you're worried about Peter. Remember what I told you before Nasiriyeh, sis. Peter's a survivor. He'll be fine.” He saw no point in upsetting her by relating the rumours he'd heard about conditions in the besieged town.

Her eyes were dark, anguished. ‘How can you be so sure?'

‘Because I know Peter.'

‘So do I, and better than you. It's easy for us to be blasé about what Peter and the others are suffering in Kut from the comfort of this mission and the certainty that Mrs Butler's table will groan with food every mealtime. But the troops in Kut are starving. I've heard they've been reduced to eating mules and horses …'

‘The Relief Force will get them out before they die from malnutrition, Angela,' Theo interrupted.

‘How can you be so sure?' Her voice rose precariously. ‘Even if they break through it will mean more fighting. Peter could be wounded or killed like Harry. Even if he survives the fighting, he could get fever like Major Mason …'

‘Or he could be back here with you within a few days. You have to stop worrying about what might never happen, Angela, and start taking care of yourself. If you don't, you'll wear yourself to a shadow and Peter will have no one to come back to. Try to rest.'

‘I'm not ill. I can't possibly lie in bed all day and do nothing.'

‘Then go and sit in the garden with Maud and enjoy the last few dry days. The rainy season will be upon us before we know it and that will put an end to walks and sitting outside.'

‘I suppose I could spend some time with Maud. She asked me to help her find a house she could rent – or possibly even buy.'

‘In Basra?'

‘Yes.'

‘I thought she'd want to go back to England.'

‘She's never been there. She was born in India and stayed there with her parents until her father was posted here. I suppose that's why she's reluctant to leave. With John dead, he's all the family she has and until the siege is raised …'

‘Stop thinking about Kut, Angela,' Theo lit his pipe and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. ‘When the siege is raised, they'll all be back here. Peter, Maud's father … all of them.'

‘Not all of them, Theo. Not Harry, Stephen Amey and John, and all the others like them who've been buried in an early grave.'

Kut al Amara, Friday 7th January 1916

Peter narrowed his eyes and closed his fists as he faced John. ‘You want me to leave you – all of you, now of all times when you're penned like rats in a trap waiting for the rat-catcher?'

‘The point of this mission is to deflect the rat-catcher. The brigadier and Crabbe asked me if you were fit enough'

‘They only asked because they know I'm ill. They want to send me downriver so I can be put out to grass like a lame mule. Don't they?' Peter demanded suspiciously.

‘They asked for my opinion because you're the obvious choice for the job. You can find your way around our defences blindfolded at night thanks to your morale-boosting trips to the front lines with Crabbe. You know Major Sandes's defensive avenues better than the back of your hand. You can report on the state of mind of our troops, British and Indian, but most important of all you know Mitkhal. You trust him because Harry trusted him. You know how he thinks and how he'll react under fire.'

‘I thought …'

‘You'd been chosen because you can't stop coughing and your wounds aren't healing?'

‘Frankly, yes.'

‘Your cough is one of the reasons that makes you the perfect courier.'

‘Because you want to send me to the hospital in Basra?'

‘Because the Turks will assume you're infected with tuberculosis and give you a wide berth. We're hoping that, accompanied by Mitkhal, who can do the talking for both of you, and dressed in Arab robes you'll be waved through Turkish lines.'

‘The brigadier really believes I'm the best man for the job?' Peter still sought reassurance.

‘If you were in his position, who would you send?'

‘A political officer who speaks fluent Arabic, and understands, thinks and behaves like a Bedouin.'

‘Harry's dead and Leachman and Wilson are in Ali Gharbi. You're all we have, Smythe. Will you do it?

Peter walked away from the window. ‘Do I have a choice?'

‘Do any of us in this man's war? But that's enough philosophy. Shall we go and tell Crabbe and the brigadier that you've volunteered?'

Crabbe was in the brigadier's office when the corporal who'd been ordered to escort Mitkhal to the Norfolks' stables staggered in with the assistance of two sappers who'd found him unconscious, lying on a dung heap behind the stables. As soon as they'd brought him round he'd asked to be taken to the brigadier's office. Before he finished speaking, Crabbe sent a message to Sergeant Lane, ordering him to meet him at the Norfolks' stables with two dozen armed Dorsets.

Leaving the brigadier to assemble his dispatches, Crabbe sent the injured corporal to the hospital and headed for the stable.